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Only when I return with the pie and risotto in ceramic bowls, he’s asleep again. He’s curled on his side, an arm thrown over his eyes, the colorful ink and the scars underneath fascinating. They aren’t parallel, like the ones I once saw on a schoolmate’s arm, from self-harming. These are irregular, crosshatched, some deeper and darker, and some shallower, paler on his tanned skin.
I place the dishes on the table and softly sink to my knees in front of him, observing the way his broad chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. He works too hard, training at the tattoo shop in the mornings, at the café in the afternoons and a fast food joint evenings. Ev said Rafe pays for his rent, so why did he take on an extra job?
His hand twitches, and his breathing changes. He curls in more tightly, and a tremor goes through him, tensing the muscles in his arms. Funny how in sleep a tall guy like him can tuck his long legs in, fitting into a corner of the sofa.
Okay, maybe funny isn’t the right word, especially when his breathing speeds up and a low moan escapes him. I watch as the nightmare pulls him under, hoping he’ll come awake on his own.
But he doesn’t. Sweat trickles down his face as he twists on the sofa, his lungs laboring. He’s muttering something under his breath, over and over again, but I can’t make out the words. His arm jerks, almost hitting me in the face.
“JJ, wake up.” I wanted him to rest, not exhaust himself worse with nightmares. Jeez, he only just fell asleep. I shake him gently, my fingertips digging into his tightly coiled, rock-hard bicep. “Wake up. Come on. JJ!”
He bolts up on the sofa, his eyes wild, and cradles his inked arm to his heaving chest as if it hurts. “Stop,” he whispers. “Just fucking stop.”
I’m at a loss. Don’t know what to do. Never seen him like this before, so shaken. He’s always so confident and sure of himself. The fear in his wide eyes is unmistakable, and I don’t even know if he sees me, his gaze locked on something I can’t see—a scrap of nightmare that lingers.
I pull myself onto the couch, and his eyes snap to me.
“Embers?” he whispers.
For some strange reason, my throat is tight. He’s out of sorts today, and it’s breaking my heart.
“Hey,” I say and put my arms around him. “I’m here.”
I half expect him to push me away and stomp out of my apartment, but he remains very still, breathing harshly in my loose embrace, the arm he holds to his chest pressing into my breasts. My embrace gentle, I let him be for a while, let him breathe until his heart stops pounding and his muscles unlock. His arms drop to his sides and he slumps against me, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rumbling inside his ribcage, vibrations traveling through my fingers to my arms. “I fell asleep.”
“You work too hard.”
He says nothing for a long time, then he starts to pull away, and I let him.
“Talking of work… I’ll be late. I don’t have the evening off.”
“Wait. What happened today, JJ?”
His long lashes flutter against his cheekbones as he looks away, avoiding my gaze. “You don’t wanna know.”
“You promised.” I wait a heartbeat, curling my legs underneath me. “We made a deal.”
“Dammit.” He bends over, runs his hands over his head. “Goddammit.”
Yeah. I knew he wouldn’t give in easily. “Something happened to you in that neighborhood. Please, JJ. I won’t tell anyone else. Cross my heart.”
He huffs, swallows hard. Rubs his inked arm, still not looking at me. “What’s it to you anyway, huh? Can’t you ask me something else?”
I unfold my legs, plant my feet on the carpet, and bend over, mimicking his posture so that our faces are nex
t to each other.
“Tell me.”
He swallows again, his throat clicking, dry, but I’m afraid that if I get up to get him some water, he’ll be gone by the time I’m back. Instead, I reach out and put my arm around him again. He tenses under my touch, then relaxes again in degrees, letting out a long, quiet sigh.
“I used to sleep there,” he says, his voice a mere breath. “Behind that dumpster.”
“When was that?” I’m afraid he’ll tell me this counts as another question or to go screw myself, but he doesn’t. He glances at me, his gaze strangely blank.
“Couple of years ago. I ran away from a boy’s camp. It was hell, and living on the street at first seemed the better option. And it was, in some ways. Until winter hit. The damn shelters were full, and I was broke. So I fell back on my old ways.”
